


A Sizable Inheritance

by KorrohShipper



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Downton Abbey, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Downton Abbey Fusion, BAMF Peggy Carter, Espionage, F/M, Peggy Carter is Aristocratic, Romance, Steggy - Freeform, Steve Rogers is Aristocratic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:47:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22335784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KorrohShipper/pseuds/KorrohShipper
Summary: “Am I to know anything about my cousin?” Peggy asked under her breath as she stepped closer to her father.“Only that he’s Irish,” he grumbled before his tone fell even lower, “—and Catholic.”Peggy Carter was supposed to lead a life of adventure.But when her brother died, creating a crisis of succession to the earldom of Rockingham, the future she was building up to came to a crashing halt. Peggy is unable to inherit the money that is rightfully hers as the money is tied to the estate and title, all of which is poised to go to another man she hardly knows let alone met.All Steve Rogers ever wanted was to be a soldier.Being born with a myriad of illnesses didn't help, but when a miracle serum helped him overcome the struggles his health brought him, a new hurdle stood in his way—to be a lab rat, performing monkey, or a red target for Hydra.When Steve's distant cousin passes away, he learns that he is the heir to an estate and the future Earl of Rockingham.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, Peggy Carter & Howard Stark, Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers
Comments: 8
Kudos: 64





	1. PEGGY

**Author's Note:**

> Certain changes are made to the continuity and timeline.
> 
> 1\. Peggy Carter broke off the engagement with Fred Wells while her brother is still alive.  
> 2\. Michael Carter's death is accelerated, immediately in 1940.

Ever since she was young, all Peggy Carter wished for was a life of adventure.

It all started with a vow once said when she was young, a resounding promise to that refused to let itself fade into the background. It was an oath that she, a woman living in a man’s world, would live a life worthy of the value she knew she held, that she wouldn’t be called to be placed in the sidelines.

There were times when she was nearly derailed, misguided into thinking the adventure lies in a path so different, like the time she nearly married Fred Wells.

But the hurdles that life threw in the way, she overcame. Peggy determined, early on, and trusted the belief that she would live her adventure,

Even in the most trying of times, she kept to that belief—she held it when her mother had all but disowned her and banished her from the estate she grew up in, she kept her chin up and kept to the belief when all of London’s society had whispered things behind her back.

It was also the same belief she carried with her when she accepted a mission she knew to be a suicide.

The Special Operations Executive, or the SOE, had charged her with a mission many men had attempted and died, failing to accomplish the goal. The objective was to break into Germany and infiltrate a high Nazi command office, a Schutzstaffel deep science intelligence division called Hydra headed by Johann Schmidt and break out a scientist who the Allied believed could turn the tides of war.

Her mission was in the form of Abraham Erskine. There were already growing tensions, Hydra knows of the SOE’s efforts to try to steal away the scientist away. Three of their agents already met a painful demise, and four more were still missing.

In many ways, she was the last hope to break out Erskine from the hands of Hydra. It was that same belief that drove her to accept the mission to do the impossible, to lay down her life for king and country.

Only, she didn’t. Peggy didn’t break out Abraham Erskine. She didn’t die, either.

A call from the War Office, on the eve of her mission to leave for Germany, had stopped her and changed her life forever. Her godfather, the Secretary of State for War, Anthony Eden, had rung for the phone and had her dismissed even before her first stint as a true agent in the field.

She was furious. Peggy could still remember the pulsating anger that coursed through her veins when she was called into the office of her godfather—it was also there when she realized that something was very wrong.

There was a field report on his desk. He looked up, grim and grave-faced. “This is from France.” He said gravelly. Peggy peered over and there was no mistaking the familiar name on the folder. “Michael is dead.”

Peggy was driven home, with two men from the office along with her godfather. She was there when the door was opened by a familiar face in the form of the family butler. She was there when her mother had dissolved into tears—but nothing too undignified, Amanda Carter would always remind lest she be accused of not having the famed British upper lip—and when the men saluted her family.

Had she been born to any other family, Michael’s death would have been a clean, surgical cut. A death no one could have been able to foresee or prevent, a death they must have to deal with no matter the pain they felt because that was life.

But the fact remains, she was not born to any other family.

Michael Carter was the only son of one Harrison Carter, 6th Earl of Rockingham. As it had been, Michael was the heir presumptive to the earldom, estate, and money that their father held.

Now, he was dead and the duty of being heir falls to another person.

That would have been the end of it, had she not been born. Her inheritance was the complication in the matter—money brought in by the marriage of her parents had been unceremoniously tied down to the estate and pulling it out would mean tearing the family seat apart.

Her home, the only true home she’s ever known, Wentworth Woodhouse, would cease to be the home of the Carters.

Peggy still had nightmares of the field report. Michael’s body was irretrievable, gone to them as much as life was to him. And much like his body, so was her promising career in the SOE.

The career she had painstakingly began to carve out was abandoned. No office would take her, not even Bletchley Park for codebreaking in fear of Anthony Eden’s intervention. The steps she had just begun to take in career ladder was rescinded—now, her death seemed much more precious than the life she had just begun to build.

The dreams of adventure would be just that: dreams.

The vow she took would never come to fruition.

Her life of adventure, just like that, gone in an instant.

Gone was the promising Agent Carter whose whole future seemed bright, whose steps would have taken her to the foreign shores of America to help pioneer a revolutionary program to help win the war.

The freedom once allowed to her as a young woman whose family’s expectation were not tied to her were now as compared to them now, firmly wrapped around her neck as though they were the strands of a rope knotted into a noose to be used in her hanging.

From the Agent’s death came a different woman. Margaret Carter was now born, an English heiress who could not truly inherit. A woman whose duty primarily relies in her marriage to her very distant, newly discovered cousin to keep Wentworth Woodhouse from collapsing upon itself.

A woman who was engaged to a man she’s only now have heard of, let alone met.

So, she stood outside, just by the gravelly, loose-rock front of the estate, eyes struggling in the bright Yorkshire sunlight, expecting the smallest indication that the man to take Michael’s place would arrive.

“Am I to know anything about my cousin?” Peggy asked under her breath as she stepped closer to her father.

“Only that he’s Irish,” he grumbled before his tone fell even lower, “—and _Catholic_.”

Peggy nearly failed to stifle her laughter. Of the many things her father would worry about, it was his heir’s religion. “Oh, the horror.” She teased, earning a small smile from her father. “How are we related?”

“Through the Fitzwilliams in Ulster. His father, Joseph Fitzwilliam had little to no prospects; his father already married below his station. Then the uprisings, dear God, he married and took his wife’s name. Poor bastard fled off to America, but the war broke out. He died even before his son was born.”

Unable to help herself, “What if he had a daughter?”

Her father shot her an unamused look. “Cheeky.”

Clearing her throat, she spoke up, “So, where’s he been all this time, half a year? Was the mail lost in transport? Surely, he wouldn’t turn down the opportunity to inherit an earldom and money, prospect of marriage added in bonus, too.”

A tight look flashed across her father’s face. “He was in the military.” Peggy deflated. He was serving. Making a difference, contributing to the cause while she was benched.

Then, in the distance, the unmistakable gleam of metal from motors finally appeared. An entire stream of them entered through the gates. The household’s staff, footmen and all, were lined up neatly and smartly to welcome the new and future master of the Wentworth.

Peggy could make out, even from afar, the perpetual presence of American flags hoisted upfront. Once the cars were brought to a stop, men in uniform stepped out. Whoever the new heir was, he was clearly someone important.

Her father, dressed in his uniform, stepped forward and smiled tightly when the man came out.

A familiar man came out. Peggy recognized him from the dossiers she once had a chance to glance at when she was still at the SOE.

The photograph of Chester Phillips that the SOE had was obviously dated but the man was recognizable nonetheless. Had Michael not died, she would have worked for him should she survive the daunting task of breaking out Abraham Erskine from Germany.

There wasn’t much she remembered; she wasn’t even allowed to know what his research was.

While her father saluted Colonel Phillips, the new heir finally stepped out of the car.

With the number of men, he towered over them. Color rose to his cheek when he spotted the staff, he looked as if he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole—he didn’t want to be there, or at least, he didn’t want to attract attention.

But his pale Irish complexion and towering height betrayed him. “Lord Rockingham, may I introduce Captain Steven Grant Rogers.” Her cousin, called Steven, approached with a shy smile.

“Captain?” another pudgy man appeared. Her father plastered a smile. Peggy recognized the man as Senator Brandt, another significant influencer of the joint project the SOE had with the America-based intelligence agency, the Strategic Scientific Reserve.

“Ah, Senator Brandt! A pleasure.” The two men shook hands and went off inside while she stayed behind with Captain Rogers and Colonel Phillips.

Trying for a smile, Peggy reached forward and offered her hand to her cousin. He flustered, nearly losing his balance on the loose rock and he flushed a crimson red. “I’m sorry.” One of the staff peeped a sound, but nothing more followed.

Peggy simply waved it off. “Happens all the time. I’m Margaret Carter.”

“Steve.” He enthusiastically accepted her hand, casually glancing around, looking intimidated more than anything. “Ah, this is Colonel Chester Phillips. He’s my, uhm, CO.”

When Chester Phillips gave her a look, his eyes narrowed into slits. A gruff harrumph sounded from him. “Margaret Carter of the SOE?” he asked cautiously.

She sighed. “Former employee, I’m afraid.” She turned to lead the way into the library where her father and Senator Brandt had already settled into. “I had to leave service after my brother died.”

Steve gave her a crestfallen look. It was refreshing, seeing his face fall genuinely. Around Wentworth Woodhouse, genuine feelings came as a rarity. “I’m sorry for your loss. Didn’t mean for you to get stuck with me.”

“So, how did you get to know Senator Brandt? A family friends perhaps?” the thought of Brandt being a family friend wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility. Even with a new identity, Joseph Rogers was still a member of an old, aristocratic family with a wide reach despite little resource to command.

It wouldn’t be the first time, Peggy thought to herself, for an American to take advantage of a friend’s old, noble, aristocratic roots.

Steve, however, shook his head. “Family friend? Well, er, I wouldn’t exactly say—” a nudge from Colonel Phillips was enough to silence Steve. The two exchanged looks, one that conveyed more words than it let on, but despite leaving the SOE, her skills were retained.

“You were saying, Captain?”

“Please, call me Steve—and, uh, yeah. Senator Brandt’s somewhat like that, if you look at it one way or another, I guess.”

They finally entered through the main hall, a flight of stairs to their right and the library to their right. Colonel Phillips already went ahead to meet with the others in the library.

She was about to enter when she spotted Steve, gazing along in the ceiling in relative awe. “Wentworth is quite something, yes?”

Startled, he turned around and gave a well-meaning smile. “Growing up during the depression, I guess you learn to be content with what you have, but this—” he gestured all around, slowly circling in on his steps, “—I never even dreamed of seeing the inside of it, let alone own it one day.”

Then, he stopped, his eyes widening for a second before he turned beet red. If there was one thing Peggy could say she’s learned of the man is that he blushes generously. “What?”

“I’ve been talking your ear off. What, er, what do you do?” he stuttered with the words nervously that she couldn’t help but laugh.

Thankfully, mercifully, he joined in. “Oh, heavens, what you must think of me.”

“Nothing bad, I promise.” He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder and towards the library. “It’s just that Col. Phillips recognized you, from SOE.”

“I was supposed to work, actually, for SSR.”

Steve’s eyes lit up. “SSR?” he looked a tad bit breathless. “Wow. What were you supposed to do there?”

In that moment, Peggy paused. “I was supposed to come along with someone—” in the end, another man had given his life to secure the release of Abraham Erskine. Last she’s heard of the man was that he was gunned down during a meeting in America. “But when my brother died, I’m afraid my father pulled some strings to get me out of service to secure Wentworth.”

At that, Steve grimaced. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m guessing you’ve heard?” Steve nodded apologetically.

The law of inheritance was a tricky one in Britain. Had she not been born to her family, perhaps one to a lesser title or none at all, she would have been fine, continuing on. But the status of her birth complicated things and mucked it up.

The title, even as a child, she’s long accepted—quite relieved, in fact—to not be considered at all. Michael was the heir, groomed since childbirth.

Wentworth and their other holdings would have gone to him, someone her father trusted and knew. Michael knew the people and understood the duty it entailed, he would have gladly taken on the position.

But now he was dead, and she was not.

Even if she did accept it, law wouldn’t allow it, at least not unconditionally. After Steve, she was sure, there would be other men who would be in line before she would even be considered to become the Countess of Rockingham.

A difficult clause put in when her mother married into the family, once her father died, if she even attempted to take the money. The only feasible way to keep the money within the family would be to marry Steve, a suggestion, Peggy was sure, had already been hopefully passed to him.

“If it helps, I tried to refuse.”

“The money?”

“Everything, but, ah, Col. Phillips told me it was a done deal. I couldn’t find my away out of it, he said.”

“Your commanding officer is telling you to accept your inheritance? How odd.” Steve’s eyes widened and gaped. Whatever it was, his relationship with his CO, there was something deeper to it. Leaving that for later, she smiled and continued towards the library. “I’m only joking, you know? I wouldn’t want the future landlord of my home to evict me so early.”

“Oh.” He swallowed, relieved. “Well, I hope you know that as long as I’m alive, you’ll always have a home in Wentworth.”

Her father, Senator Brandt, and Colonel Phillips were already seated by the fireplace. “I believe you’re a captain in the army?” Steve mutely nodded, a less than enthusiastic response. “How are you going to serve now?”

Steve pursed his lips and gave her a thoughtful look. “Senator Brandt said that while he’d help sort—” he gestured around them, “—all of this out, I’d be helping him and with, uhm, bond sales and _diplomacy_.”

“An ambassador. How distinguished.”

“So, what about you?”

“Me?” Peggy balked. “There’s quite nothing to be about me, Captain, almost not one bit.”

He gave a small smile. “Almost?” he chuckled under his breath, “I’m trying to secure a position at Bletchley Park, you see. For codebreakers.” She blew a breath. “I’ve worked for so long, so hard to get to where I was and now here I am starting right at the bottom again. Job hunting even now, I’m afraid, it’s rather all bollocks.”

Steve stifled a laugh, a well and true, genuine laugh.

“What?”

“Oh, it’s nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“Well, you see, it’s just that I know what’s it’s like to have every door slammed at your face.”

“You?” she voiced out, skeptical. “I’m sorry, but I find it hard to believe that you—” she gave him an odd look. He was tall, incredibly so. Muscles filled out nicely, but not too much. Peggy wasn’t blind to see that Steve was attractive, “—with your all-American qualities that people wouldn’t give you a chance.”

He laughs mirthlessly. “I wasn’t like this, er—” he looked around, “—growing up?”

“You don’t sound sure.”

“The thing is, I wasn’t always like this.” He gestured around him. “You know, big. But there was this doctor, Abraham Er—”

“Rogers!”

Their heads whipped towards the direction of the others. “Colonel Phillips, sir!”

The older man grumbled with a frown. “Senator Brandt wants to talk to you about your, erm. . . _special assignment_.” Senator Brandt had already stood up and left for the motor, which was brought out at front.

“I guess, I’m going to have to see him out.” He gave her an apologetic glance. “I guess I’ll see you later at dinner.”

Peggy groaned. Dinner. Her head physically hurt at the idea of dinner where a prying grandmother and hopeful mother would try and interfere on her behalf.

Her panic, however, was not well received. “But only if you’d have me there, ‘f course.”

She waved him off. “Oh, no. It’s not that, I’m simply afraid that you’d meet the rest of the family. I’m afraid that all you’ll be served with is the constant pushing to marry me.”

“I don’t know. Something tells me that whoever marries you is a pretty lucky guy.” He blinked, once and then twice. “You’re not someone who settles down.”

Unable to fight a grin, Peggy smiles. “I know my worth, Captain.” But she schools her features to a calm. “And you? Any broken heart left behind in your fair city of. . .” she trailed off.

At the mention of his city, he brightened. “Brooklyn,” then, he groaned appreciatively, leaning backwards, a hand pressed to his heart. “God, I miss Brooklyn! You should have seen it, you know? There’d be tons I miss, like the Dogders.”

“Dodgers? Are those the trail of broken hearts you’d leave?”

“Nah, I was little back then, you know?” she nodded. “Well, let’s just say the only woman whose heart I had was my Ma’s. No one really wanted a guy who looked like their kid brother.”

“Not even a dance?”

He looked at her, earnest and serious, a sad smile tugged on his lips. “Well, would you dance with a guy you could step on?”

“I could.” She replied heartily, readily and steady. There was no doubt in her voice. “If he’s the right partner.”

“The right partner.” He echoed, pondering on her words when a cough from behind them sounded. There was another call for him, now in the form of a footman who came to fetch him. “Well, here’s to our right partners.”


	2. STEVE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That young woman’s blood, Senator, that’s on your hands.” He grumbled and Steve agreed. It was in his hands. He was the target. “I don’t care about that 10% sales increase. Right now, there is a family mourning their little girl—just because you wanted to make your Roxxon profit happily.”

Ever since Steve was a kid, all he could remember was wanting to become a soldier, just like his father.

Pa George often told him stories of the Great War, how every single young men and strong women who braved those battles were heroes in their own right. It was cemented then and there when Steve decided he wanted to be a soldier.

Not to fight for glory or win medals or even just for recognition.

Steve wanted to fight for what his father fought for—the right cause.

As a child, Steve always looked forward to bedtime because it was when his Ma would sit him down and tell stories of her and his father. He was regaled with the tales of how a penniless immigrant left his home and country in search of a better life for his wife and unborn child but when the war broke out, there wasn’t a question of what had to be done.

Joseph Rogers took up the arms and answered the call because he believed it to be the right thing to do, or, just as his Ma would say, “Because he wouldn’t stand for bullies and neither should you, my golden boy.”

So, that was what Steve did, he didn’t stand for bullies.

But what stature and strength his father had in spades had seemingly skipped a generation because he didn’t. Sickly and thin, the doctors weren’t optimistic about him when he was born.

It was for good reason. Growing up, especially during the depression, Steve had a myriad of illnesses that could only describe his surviving into adulthood as a bona fide medical marvel. When he was seven, all the other boys his age had already grown a foot taller than him—least to say, he didn’t make fast friends with the kids around his neighborhood.

Steve couldn’t count on all his fingers the alleys he had been beat up black and blue or the parking lots he had been mugged clean. For all his refusal to stand to up to bullying, he couldn’t quite stand up after being beaten up by one.

But he wouldn’t run away. He couldn’t. “If you start running,” his Ma once told him, his hand clutched in hers in a tight desperation that he never saw in her before, “you’ll never stop.”

She made him promise, that night. She made promise with all his life that he would never run away from a fight. He didn’t remember promising because he was ushered out the room when she started a coughing fit.

The next morning, she was gone. That was the last thing he heard her say before life left her. TB from the hospital wards, couldn’t shake it.

So, when the war broke out and many young men were being drafted—Bucky included—Steve knew he had to join up and answer the call. If only they could give him the chance to do so because he knows he could fight, he could contribute to the cause.

A part of him was ashamed. He knew he couldn’t be a soldier, that’s the truth. There was a small tingling part of him that knew he was trying to run away from the life he had even though his Ma promised him to never start running.

He felt guilty—but not guilty enough to stop himself from applying five times in five different states.

That was when he met the good doctor. “So, you want to go overseas. Kill some Nazis.” He had a heavy accent, the doctor from the enlistment office near the Stark Convention. The doctor had in his hand files, not one, but five and fear surged in him.

It was a crime to lie on an enlistment form and he did it more than once.

“Excuse me?”

The doctor gave him a warm look and a small smile, “Dr. Abraham Erskine. I represent the Strategic Scientific Reserve.”

Uneasy but not wanting to be rude, he straightened his back. “Steve Rogers.” He eyed the doctor carefully, trying not to fidget. “Where are you from?”

“Queens 73rd Street and Utopia Parkway. Before that, Germany.” A leveled look was shot in his direction. “This troubles you?”

Instinctively, he shook his head. “No.”

And then, the shock happened—his five files were spread out in front of him. The five documents that detailed his lies and he wanted nothing more than to hang his head in shame. He was caught.

“Five tries,” Dr. Erskine pointed out with a small, proud smile. “Now, do you want to kill Nazis?”

The question sat wrong with Steve. He didn’t want to go to war for the glory or the kill count or the medals. He remembered the stories of his father, the man who fled to another country in search of a better life, he didn’t have to join the fight but he did. Because it was the right thing to do.

Because he didn’t stand for bullies. He never did and he wasn't about to start now.

Steve remembered all the time he’s been beaten down, taking a punch or two in some dusty alley where he’d almost meet his maker if not for Bucky intervening.

He cleared his throat. “I don’t wanna kill anyone. I don’t like bullies—I don’t care where they’re from.”

That was the moment that changed his life.

It turns out, the Strategic Scientific Reserve was something far bigger than it made itself to be. It was a science division of the US military that focused its resources in equipping the soldiers with the best possible gear to help them survive and win the war and defeat the deep science division of the Nazi party.

“Hydra.” Dr. Erskine told him in solemnity during the night before experiment. “The SSR and SOE—Special Operations Executive—have joint forces for this project.”

“Why me?” he asked that night. There were other good men with him in training. Other better men who could be much better soldiers than him. To his surprise, Dr. Erskine just laughed. “Because I don’t want a good soldier, I want a good man.”

Steve was then told of the story about Johann Schmidt, the leader of Hydra and how the early version of the serum had given the man incredible, unspoken power but disfigured him a great deal.

“Did you want anyone else in mind? Before me?” Steve blurted out before he could even think.

Thankfully, Dr. Erskine didn’t think of it as self-pity or doubt. “There was someone, someone I believe would have been as worthy of the serum as much as you are.”

“Who is he?”

Dr. Erskine chuckled and downed a shot of the alcohol, “ _He_?” the man echoed. “She was supposed to break me out of Germany. The SOE had attempted numerous times to break me out, to no successful results, of course. The agents always had planned an intricate breakout, one involving explosives and other convoluted mechanisms.”

Steve understood and nodded. “They were caught.”

“They couldn’t trace me to the efforts, so I was left otherwise unharmed. But there was this one encounter during 1939 when the SOE contacted me and asked me to prepare for a different approach, one designed and created by an agent who was supposed to break me out.”

Steve leaned forward, “What did she do?”

“Women were, to the Deutschland, invisible. Second to men,” Steve almost scoffed. That wasn’t true. He could only wish to be half the person his mother was. Erskine hummed approvingly, “You don’t approve?”

“No, I don’t.”

Dr. Erskine smiled. “Good, because it was her plan that got me out. She was supposed to be the liaison of the SOE with the SSR.” Steve frowned. Agent Grantham was a good man, there was no doubt in that. He didn’t turn a blind eye whenever the other recruits would pick on him during training. “The bravado of convoluted plans was disguised by something much simpler—a check up.”

Steve laughed in approval. “That’s amazing.” Then realization dawned on him. _Was_. “What happened to her?” he asked in a low voice, sobering up quickly.

Immediately, Dr. Erskine shook his head. “Oh, no. Nothing like that—knock on wood.” He tapped his fist on the bed frame. “The agent’s plan worked however, she was dismissed before the mission could even begin.”

Something sat uneasy within him. “Because she was a woman?” he felt a surge of empathy. He understood what it was like, after all, to asked out just because they think he couldn’t do the job right or at all.

“No. Because her brother died. Her family had took her out of the agency.” Dr. Erskine took another shot glass and filled it up with the alcohol before handing it to him. “To the little ones.”

Steve raised the glass. He thought of the agent who was supposed to be the liaison. Had things been different, she would have been the one to train him. Steve liked to think, as someone who was probably a leading expert in having doors shut right in front of his face, he would have liked her. “To the ones who never got a shot.” He was about to down the drink when Dr. Erskine’s eyes widened and took the glass right from his hand.

“No! Wait—what am I doing? You have procedure tomorrow.” He looked at him pointedly. “No fluids.”

Understanding, he nodded and breathed out. “We’ll just drink it tomorrow, then.” Steve thinks on the toast after. There would be after. It would be a success. Even though the field physicians were skeptical of him surviving the project, he knew he could do it.

He had faith.

Only, that faith was short lived and misplaced.

The serum worked, unbelievably so. But what little moment of victory they had died immediately when the observation deck was blown to pieces. A Hydra agent had snuck inside the facility.

Steve saw him just by the edge of the medical bay. There was a file in his hand and Steve recognized that file as his own. One of the soldiers managed to shoot the file off the spy’s hands, but it was too late—a bullet pierced Dr. Erskine right in the chest. 

“A good man.” He whispered before his head lolled to the side.

That was six months ago.

Steve found himself back in one of the briefing offices inside the SSR, secluded from the bullpen. Senator Brandt frowned deeply, but whatever displeasure he had clearly wasn’t matched by Colonel Phillips.

There was an awkward silence that hung in the air. “Colonel, I’m not sure you understand this, but we have a standing agreement!” a pile of show posters were splattered near the office. “Roxxon Corporation could sue the government and they’d win!”

“With all due respect, Senator Brandt, I don’t care about the bed you’ve made with Roxxon. My priority is the survival of my division and the safety of my men. I was promised an army of supersoldiers and Rogers is the only one I have.”

Senator Brandt looked like his angry vein was ready to burst. “Colonel, I understand your frustration. But you saw the public, when Captain—” Colonel Phillips grumbled under his breath, something about not deserving the title because it was only a stage name, “—when Captain Rogers is a valuable asset to the economy. Wars often bankrupt nations and what use is fighting when there won’t be a nation to support after?”

“Because we’d still be a country afterwards, of people. _Living_ people,” Colonel Phillips seethed and gritted out. Steve felt guilty.

Even after being cleaned and changing out of his clothes, he could still feel the blood that soaked into his skin, the metallic scent that wafted to his nose. He could still remember the lifeless, glassy look in the eyes of one of the USO dancers when he held her in his arms, begging him not to let her die until the last breath left her lips.

“That young woman’s blood, Senator, that’s on your hands.” He grumbled and Steve disagreed. Even if Brandt was the one who organized the whole USO show, the politician wasn't the one who was shielded from a spray of bullets. He wasn't the one who that showgirl jumped in front for. As much as he wanted to agree with Colonel Phillips, her death was on him. Her blood was on his hands. He was the target. They killed her because they thought they could kill him. “I don’t care about that 10% sales increase. Right now, there is a family mourning their little girl—just because you wanted to make your Roxxon profit happily.”

Unsurprisingly, Senator Brandt snapped, “Now, look here—”

“He’s right.” He said, silent and mirthless. The colonel was right. He was a Hydra target. It was only by some luck that the agent who killed Erskine didn’t get his file. He shuddered at the thought of his family, of Ma Winnie and Pa George in danger just for the crime of taking him in. “I can’t be your performing monkey.”

An audible harrumph left Phillips. “You see, even Rogers knows it. Right now, he is the most valuable asset the US army has and I am not risking his, or any showgirl’s life, just because there’s a bump of bond sales in every state he visits in that stupid costume.”

Senator Brandt looked flabbergasted and red all over. “And what do you propose?”

“Keep him in the lab where he’s safe. Try to recreate the serum so that if you ever do decide to steal him away for your little show, he won’t be the only pony you’ll fawn over.” It was harsh, but it was true. Even though Steve was sure that Colonel Phillips warmed up to him after the grenade incident, that was what he was.

An expensive and vulnerable weapon that every big wig wants.

Senator Brandt scoffed. “Your Brooklyn facility was as hidden as it goes and look what happened!” the Senator wore a glove on his left hand, a permanent reminder of the day Dr. Erskine died. The man was pierced with a shard of glass and he carried it with him like a personal trump card. “At least, when he is in the USO trip, he is moving. He won’t be a sitting duck and he won’t be an underused asset.”

The debate went on and on.

Naturally, Steve didn’t side with any of them. The options were limited and grounding—it was either to be a performing monkey and risk everyone else’s lives or be a lab rat with needles prodding him every two second and still risk everyone else’s lives.

When he was called into the same office later that week, Steve almost groaned. It was a ritual by then, being made privy to the debate on where and who was to use him and how.

But that day was different. Instead of the bickering sight he came to call a reality, there was a grounding silence that hung around the two men who often clashed. “What happened?”

“We received a letter from Anthony Eden.” Steve cocked his head to a side. “Who?”

“The Secretary of State for War. He called in for you.”

Steve’s brows furrowed. “What does he want with me?”

“It’s not Eden who wants you, it’s an ally of his, Rogers.” A letter was dropped on the table that showed an extensive file and looked like it was about to burst by the seams.

“I don’t understand.”

Senator Brandt gave a trying smile, like he was tried of explaining the same concept to a child over and over again. He was obviously gaining something from whatever this deal was with Eden. “Captain, have you ever wondered who your grandparents were?”

What followed was a series of headaches that he didn’t understand, something involving inheritance that he never knew about and lineage that he only heard of in history books.

From what Senator Brandt explained, eagerly highlighting the details where he could balance out the outstanding debt the US and the SSR accumulated from financing Project Rebirth through working for the London-based SOE, was that he was suddenly in line for a fortune and estate in England—“In Yorkshire.”—and as a prospective ambassador and diplomat, Steve would answer to the foreign office, which Brandt was head of, firstly and to army second.

He could see why Brandt was so happy about it all. It was the solution to override Colonel Phillips. 

“He’s still a target.” Col. Phillips grumbled under his breath, reading the file about Rockingham Estate. “Putting him in an open position would only make Rogers more vulnerable to attacks.”

“Nonsense!” Brandt retorted. “What Hydra knows is that the man who received the serum is a penniless, orphaned soldier from Brooklyn, not heir to an estate in England.” The politician smiled an uneasy smile. “He’s disguised and hidden away while he could work for the American government overseas.”

“As your show pony.”

“Not necessarily. Captain Rogers could play a pivotal role in diplomacy and encouraging overseas investors.”

Steve shifted uncomfortably. “What if I don’t want it?” heads turned to his direction. “I don’t want to go to England. Brooklyn, it’s my home. New York. Besides, what business do I have, taking people's hard-earned home just because of the virtue of my birth."

Naturally, Brandt ignored him. 

“Think this through, Colonel—Erskine was a genius, but he isn’t the only mind that matters. Somewhere out there, there was other _Erskines_ ,” Steve frowned. Brandt talked about Erskine as if he was some replaceable part of a machine. Expendable when not needed, “—and if they could see the end result, the practical application of the theoretical,” Brandt smirked, “you may just get the army you’re complaining about.”

Colonel Phillips frowned even deeper. “Senator—”

“Colonel, take a look at the law, here. What I’m giving you isn’t a permanent offer, the government will use of Captain Rogers as it sees fit, and if that means taking him overseas to be the liaison and an auxiliary member of the foreign department, we will do so.” The poisonous smile on the politician's face made him feel uneasy. "We're taking Captain Rogers, Chester, with or without you."

Steve’s stomach fell. As much as he understood that Colonel Phillips was fighting for him and his safety even if it was in the hands of a laboratory where the only real contribution he’ll give is in the form of blood bags, it seems like that’s about to end.

“It’s his birthright, Colonel.”

Colonel Phillips grumbled, but begrudgingly nodded. Brandt laughed and barked out for his assistant to call the foreign office and book a to London. Before leaving, he grinned widely at the both of them, frowning and staring off in the space, unmoving at all.

“A sizable inheritance, Captain. Now let’s show those people from across the pond how we make that economy grow.”

Steve breathed tightly. He figures that’s what he is now. To the army, his cells, the DNA and blood that courses through his veins were just that: the property of a government that didn't see him as him, only as a statistic or a number in the figures. 

He's now a project meant to stand for future endeavors, a bank of sorts. He could see it now, what he was to the government and the administrations that would follow—

“A sizable inheritance.”


	3. PEGGY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “They’re not here to celebrate me.” Steve huffed with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m the outsider; _the American who couldn’t even hold his knife properly like a gentleman_ ; the oddity who’s suddenly smacked right in the middle of their circle.”

As far as London’s code of society goes, nothing says acceptance like a party thrown in their honor. Frankly, Peggy thinks that a posh party isn’t exactly what Steve would consider a warm reception.

“I mean, look at him—dreadful!” a marchioness exclaimed in hushed but unreserved tones. “American! I doubt he could even hold his knife properly like a gentleman.”

Honestly, Peggy had enough. The nobility got on her nerves even without them preying on an innocent man. Talking behind his back, mocking him knowing he wouldn’t hear was something she couldn’t bear to stomach.

 _At his own party no less_ , Peggy thought to herself before removing herself from the conversation with no excuse. Her mother would berate her later, no doubt, but she found that after living with a much simpler life, company among the men and women who braved war in the little time she spent with the SOE, being a spectator was something she couldn’t stomach to do.

But a scene wouldn’t help Steve, not like that. He didn’t need her fighting his battles for him.

The guest of honor stood near the edge of the ballroom, nursing to in his hands an untouched flute of champagne that he obviously didn’t care for.

“Is the party not up to your liking?” he turned to her direction, snapping him out of his reverie.

He softened and smiled. “No, it’s not that. It’s. . . _fancy_ ,” he placed the glass on a nearby tray and gazed around him. “Do you always do this? Parties?”

Wentworth was, least to say, generously decorated to herald the new heir to the estate. Invitations to the party had been sent ahead of his arrival. Having an unknown—American at worst and Irish at best, and a Catholic no less—man willed to inherit a legacy a thousand years and several generations in the making, it’s enough to make any family crack under pressure.

But the minute division starts to appear, and the perfect illusion begins to crack, it would enough to draw the wolves and vultures of London society waiting to prey at an already grieving and fragile family.

“Not regularly, no.” She went to his side. “I’m afraid they’re all excited at the prospect to meet you. They’re here to celebrate you.” Peggy spotted the several faces among the crowds.

“They’re not here to celebrate me.” Steve huffed with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m the outsider; _the American who couldn’t even hold his knife properly like a gentleman_ ; the oddity who’s suddenly smacked right in the middle of their circle.”

Peggy’s face fell. “No. You’ve heard.” Then a part of her snapped, like cold water had been poured over her— _he heard_. In the midst of all the noise going on, the music and the overlapping conversation, he heard.

By a virtue she held true to herself, Peggy found that everyone is entitled to secrets of their own. Steve, she decided, was no stranger to this.

But as much as she’d like to pry, it’s cruel enough.

Peggy wouldn’t rest, not until she understood the man who would continue what was supposed to be Michael’s legacy. But for tonight, she relented, it would be cruel.

So, she cracked a smile. “You know, if it’s being an oddity you’re concerned about, don’t be. They’ve seen plenty of that from me.”

His eyebrows rose to this hairline. “You?” he asked in disbelief. “No, you’re kidding me.”

Peggy took the flute that he set down and claimed it for her own. She shook her head. “I kid you not, Captain, I am not having you on—just imagine the papers: a wealthy, well-educated girl trades an engagement to a fine and respectable man for roughhousing to go off and fight a war.”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged, “sounds brave to me.”

“If only they saw it that way,” he gave her a puzzling look. “I can assure you, they didn’t.”

“Millions of people are laying their lives down—I mean, they’ve got no business telling us we’ve got no right to do any less than them.”

“Only because they think they can, _women-tending-the-fire-while-the-men-are-fighting_ rubbish and whatnot.” She tilted her head to the side and gave him an amused look. “You have no idea how refreshing it is, to find a perspective like yours again.”

“Again?”

“I lived among the commons, as they may say. I worked for the telephone company, trying to make it on my own, then trained as a field nurse—my breakthrough came at the college, when they were fielding for a codebreaker.” She gave a thoughtful look.

Steve smirked, but he thankfully hid it well lest he attract attention. It was a bona fide miracle, how he wasn’t sought out much more often considering it was his party. “And how’d you find us common folk?”

Unable to hide a smile, she took a sip of champagne. “Well, I once had an American roommate.”

“And?” he trailed, expectantly.

“I must say that you Americans are awfully easily impressed—”

“ _Hey, now_.” He interjects, but not with malice. In fact, it felt natural, like good natured banter. It could have been the champagne, but she swore there’s a hint of amusement in his voice.

“But I’ll have you know, Captain, that I’m not the personification of grace and eloquence you’re so acquainted with.”

She expected him to laugh—he gave a huff of amusement. But he largely gave her a lopsided look, one of great interest or intrigue. “You’re one of a kind, Margaret Carter.”

“I should hope so. A woman must maintain an air of mystery.” She smiled, before adding: “I’d hate to be predictable, you know?”

But he kept that gaze. “Do I have something on my face?” she asked. “You know it isn’t at all gentlemanly to not tell.”

“No, it’s just that I wanted to meet that Margaret Carter—independent and free. She sounds pretty amazing.” The compliment wasn’t lost on her, implication and all. The support and commiseration. A yearning for their old lives back. There was no use in hiding the fact that she wanted that life back, too.

But she waved her hand. “ _Oh_ ,” she breathed out. “That Margaret Carter. I believe she liked to be called Peggy.”

Steve paused, for a moment. “ _Peggy Carter_.” He echoed a small, soft whisper with a growing smile on his face.

“Oh, but not too loud,” she teased. “My mother might hear and rain upon us an unholy hell for not using our Christian names.”

“ _Peggy Carter_.” He said again, rolling off the letters in a distinct Brooklyn twang as compared to the crisp vowels that she’s so very used to hear.

“Yes, that was my name. Not very clever, now that I think about it, if the objective was to hide from my parents. As you can see, it did little bloody good to the cause.”

Steve shook his head. “Can I call you that?” he blurted, oddly fixed on her sobriquet. A part of Peggy suspected that he didn’t mean to say it out loud. “Peggy, I mean. Can I call you that?”

“Oh, I should only hope so,” she glanced at the people around them. “All so stuffy with this _Margaret_ -business. Just holler at the top of your lungs the name Margaret and you’d find half a dozen women staring straight at your direction.”

Then, a somber silence enveloped them. Steve was worried, she could tell, if he’d done or said something wrong. Aside from those flat mates she’s made friends with, there was ever only one person who religiously and faithfully called her by that name.

“Michael used to call me that.” Understanding dawned. “I suppose it brings me back to simpler times—happier times.”

It was with a jolt that she realized Steve held her hand. Immediately, she withdrew it. There was an emotion drawn up on his face that she couldn’t quite understand but there was tingling feeling in her stomach, a fluttering of sorts as if she had swallowed a box of fireworks.

“I’m sorry.” They said in unison, further adding to the rise of color in Steve’s cheeks. Thankfully for her, the English complexion had yet to betray her when she stepped apart—

“Captain!”

They both turned around to see Senator Brandt, smiling with an ease around the people. Steve fixed an uneven stare, a marriage between wanting to be polite and yet extremely displeased.

“Lady Margaret,” he acknowledged with a polite glance before turning to Steve’s direction once more. “Might I steal him away for a few moments?”

Steve looked like he wanted to protest, his fingers curled into a fist but there was nothing to be done.

Her answer wouldn’t warrant much use as the senator had already pulled Steve away and escaped the busy room in favor of a much clearer, more quiet backdrop of the terrace.

Allowing them a minute to disappear, Peggy followed soon after, clinging to the shadows before making her way to another exit towards the terrace, briefly making out the music of the band and the chatter of the crowds before it muted into a white noise when she inched nearer by the edge.

“Captain Rogers, are you ready for tomorrow?”

There was a period of silence. “As ready as I will be.”

“There will be a field test.” There was a rough grumble that she didn’t quite recognize until she peeked over. It was Colonel Phillips, looking equally, if not more, displeased than Steve was at the moment. “I took the liberty of getting an appointment with office.”

“I still don’t like the idea.” Grouched Phillips. “I’d understand the British. But Russia?”

“We’re allies, Colonel, and if we’re to defeat Germany, we need the funds to synthesize more of the serum—imagine, a shrimp, 90-lbs soaking wet with Rogers and he’s turned out fantastic, just think of what we could do with an ideal soldier.” There was haughty huff of air of Brandt. “You know I’m right, Colonel, you said it yourself: Rogers was skinny.”

“The good doctor said a good man.”

“We’ll find more. And this is a war, you don’t win it by having good men, you win it by having the guts to do what others couldn’t.” Peggy once more clung to the edge of the wall when Brandt moved to rejoin the party, leaving both Colonel Phillips and Steve out in the cold.

“It’s wrong.” Steve breathed out, frustrated. “I could do more, you know I do. If you could just give me a chance.”

“Rogers—”

“Send me out, to the front line. You’ve seen what I can do in New York.”

“Son, I told you, remember. When you jumped in on that grenade, that you were meant for more than whatever Brandt had in mind.” There was this pained, pitying sound from Phillips. “Son of a bitch has my hands tied down. I’m sorry, but you’re to answer to Brandt.”

“What if I try to appeal to the chair of the agency? The SSR is an Allied effort, maybe I can convince someone else.”

“A fat chance in hell.” Phillips sighed, a tired and weary one. “You report 0800, Rogers—”

It was an inopportune crunch of snow that gave her away. Peggy leaned against the cover of the shadow and back to the corner where she hid.

“I knew it. I heard that extra heartbeat.” Steve looked over to her direction. “But it’s too far, too dark.” Phillips frowned, huffing before heading over to where she was.

Bloody Nora, she cursed. He stood in front of her, enveloped in the darkness. “Colonel?”

“Look inside, Rogers, make sure no one heard.”

Peggy’s brows knotted together as she watched the man walk away. Colonel Phillips was about to reach for the doors. “Why?”

“Margaret Carter, SOE.” He groused. “You would have made one hell of a field agent, do you know that? Cracking codes like they were your knuckles back at Bletchley, a field test score that would make my best soldiers cry, not to mention MI-5’s brightest who managed to beat that son of gun Fleming who almost blew Erskine’s cover.”

She rolled her eyes. MI-5’s favourite son was Ian Fleming, but if she was going to be honest, the man could have saved the intelligence agency the trouble if he had any sense and read the correspondence she’s set up with Dr. Erskine instead of heading in blind.

Peggy stepped out of the shadows. “You’ve read my file?”

“I kept my eye out for promising talent.” Phillips gave a smirk. “You should have seen him—you could have whipped him up to shape.” There was no doubt they were talking about Steve and yet Peggy wondered, how in the world could she have whipped him into shape.

“Given his form, I’d say it wouldn’t be very hard.”

“Agent Carter, why are you letting your talents go to waste?”

“I had to—someone had to keep this all up.” Peggy stared at Wentworth with a bag of mixed emotions. Sad to have to let her life slip through its fingers, and torn for having to choose a passion and staple in her life that was the estate.

“Bullshit.” He cursed. Phillips looked through the doors and smirked. “Rogers is looking for you,” he eyed the door. “Are you heading in, Agent?”

“Technically speaking, I’m not an agent. I gave that up.”

“Technically speaking, I don’t care, Carter.” But she stayed behind, moving out to the light more prominently. “I’ll tell him where you are.”

It was only when he reached the doors, opening them apart when she gathered the courage to speak up, “Thank you, Colonel, for that.”

“Well, if you ever want to break back into service without having to be pulled out, tell me and I’ll clear out my secretary.”

Peggy laughed. “Sir, I’m afraid my secretarial skills are not the pride of my resume. You’ll sooner be straining your coffee with your teeth, I’d say—if it was that dreadful drink I’d whip up.” Phillips cracked a smile.

“I wouldn’t expect less. I’ll get Rogers for you.”

“Much appreciated.”

Peggy was silently enjoying the night sky, her mind filled with the mystery that Steve Rogers held. She wasn’t nearly as close to his secrets as she’d like, but after tonight, she found that he was much more than an outsider who found himself in a strange, new world.

Slowly, she was beginning to understand what he meant, feeling what it was like to have every door shut in his face. A sense of respect budded in her for Steve.

“Margaret!” a slurred voice sounded from behind her.

She groaned before turning around. “Gilmore Hodge, a pleasure.” It was decidedly not. Hodge was a son of a diplomat, always too sure of himself and always enjoyed the alcohol in every occasion. This party, clearly, proved to be no exception as he swayed from one side to another.

“I hear—” _hic_!

“You were talking to the Colonel for some—” his face got unbearably near hers and he reeked of alcohol and overly strong pomade, “—position.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and Peggy shuddered in near disgust.

Thanks to a powerful father with far reach, strings were pulled for Gilmore Hodge, no doubt, landing him a high ranking officer position within the RAF without so much as training. “I’m fielding job prospects.”

The door swung open. It was Steve. He frowned at the scene.

“Maybe I could help out, say a thing or two—” he leaned in even closer, “—I know some things I’d like to hear from you.”

Pushing him forward, Peggy angled her body before rearing her fist back and hitting Hodge right smack in the left cheek.

Her fist hurt like a mighty hell, She had forgotten that Hodge had an operation where metal fixture had been added to a row of his teeth. An oversight, truly, but seeing Gilmore Hodge on the ground made whatever discomfort worth it.

“ _Margaret_!”

And now there was a crowd.

In the forefront of it was her mother, gasping. Colonel Phillips, however, nodded in approval. “I see that this is how you break in the recruits across the pond.” Steve cracked a grin at that. “Maybe if we start doing that back home, the recruits could learn a thing or two.”

Her father tried to huddle everyone back inside, leaving her with a withering look from her mother with the promise of a lengthy talk the day after.

The crowd that was one there had cleared up, back inside, even ready to go. It had been a long evening, no doubt. Ready to head in herself, she was stopped when someone else appeared.

It was Steve.

“I suppose you’re not keen to marry me now?”

He gave no answer, instead, plopping a bucket of ice used for champagne near them and dabbed his pocket square into the water. “Give me your hand.” Cautiously offering her hand, he was surprisingly gentle. One would think he’d be pulling at a strength he didn’t quite control.

“My mother was a nurse, you know?” he dabbed carefully but thoroughly. It stung, if she was honest, but she remembered what it was like, training to be a field nurse back when the uni had offered a course in its curriculum and she had seized it as a way to get her foot in.

“I always got into these fights as a kid. My Ma wasn’t always around, she had to work these shifts. But she taught me how to take of myself, so that when there’s help to be given or when she wasn’t around to take care of me, I’d be okay.”

Peggy sighed. “Sometimes, I do wish Mama was like that.” She grimaced, not at the sting of the sheer cold cloth, but at the thought of another lecture from her mother. “Should I expect a dressing down from you, Captain?”

Steve smiled. “For what? Having a mean right hook?” he chuckled, letting her hand free now as he examined his handiwork. “Keep that iced so that you’d have no swelling. Knuckle’s fine, actually, nothing broken, not even a split.”

“You’re really not mad?” she asked. “First night out in society and your name’s already marred by your cousin.”

“Honestly?” he smiled, breath fogging up in the cold, “I’d be much more upset if you didn’t teach me how to throw that punch.”

Mirroring the smile she was unable to fight, she held up her now cold-numbed fist, “Well, as thanks, once day, I’ll show you how. Tomorrow?” unable to resist, she tested him, letting her foot crunch on the snow.

His eyes widened, but it eased into a smile. He knows that she knew, at least a slim part of the truth. And the fact that he didn't deny it, or rush to correct any part of it, that he trusted her knowing a part of the truth without truly knowing who she was, had allowed a warmth inside her to blossom.

“How about a raincheck?”


	4. STEVE

“Rogers!”

Steve snapped back into attention as his surroundings closed in on him: instead of the hidden facility with the brick foundation in Brooklyn, it was the bustling underground bunker in London.

Never more in his life did he feel like a fish out of water, hanging around in laboratories and clinics. The more days he spent in London, being a “diplomat” working in the foreign office under Senator Brandt’s authority consisted of primarily being a human blood bank.

His day was held up constantly on an examination bench with a needle stuck up in his arm filling up a bag until he felt dizzy. But no matter how much blood he gave, scientists around them couldn’t even come close to cracking the serum.

Colonel Phillips had been examining a file. Steve only had a glimpse of its contents. It was something about a new type of weapon Hydra had been developing, a different kind of weapon that disintegrated and killed instantly.

Then, the door flew open.

In front of him was Senator Brandt, his forehead creased with lines and his lips pursed into an angry frown. “Senator,” he greeted politely.

Whatever discretion he tried to show, the slightest sign of respect was clearly absent when Colonel Phillips, his currently benched CO who is personally tasked by Brandt to recreate the serum while the allies try to win the war, whichever came first.

“And what are you so worked up on, Frank?”

Brandt angrily mumbled under his breath and crumpled the letter in his hands. “Churchill and Stalin aren’t convinced that Rebirth is worth funding, and with Roosevelt’s deadlines, the lack of any viable results from our division—”

Colonel Phillips frowned. “SSR will be shut down and the army won’t have any intelligence against the technology Hydra is developing to win the war.”

Steve stepped off the bench and stood alongside the older men, shaking his head. “They can’t do that,” he breathed out, grabbing the file Colonel Phillips had been studying earlier and flipped it open, stopping on a page of the weapon. “Could you imagine the amount of damage they could do?”

Then there it was, the grimace that went even deeper on his CO’s face.

“Damage they already did.”

It was only then when Steve noticed the lines on Colonel Phillips’ ran deeper, his eyes downcast, darkness looming around them, and weariness he’s only seen on him once. Steve recognized that look as grief and anger.

“What happened?”

Senator Brandt shook his head. “Chester, don’t—”

“It’s the 107th. They had been pinned down in Azzano, had enemy blockades surrounding them in every direction closing in on the hour when Johann Schmidt decided it would be the perfect testing ground for his weapons.”

Colonel Phillips took the file from his hands and flipped to the last page. “Captain, get out of the room.” Senator Brandt protested, but Steve couldn’t hear it above the sound of his blood pounding in his ears. Almost the entire 107th infantry was decimated, more than half had been killed by the energy rifles Hydra had developed while a little more than 150 men had been captured.

 _Bucky_.

His hands shook and his mouth gaped. “I need the casualty list.”

“Rogers!” Brandt barked again, now looking much more pointedly. “Get out of the clinic. Go back to Yorkshire. We’ll call for you when you’re needed.”

“No.” He said firmly, staring back, his mind conjuring the photograph of a pair of dog tags sitting atop a pile of ash. “I just need one name,” he begged. “Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.”

The look of heavy grief on Colonel Phillips face was more than enough. Brandt, who had been pushing him out of his spot, finally got him to budge. Whether it was because the older man had a surge of strength or because he could all but collapse on the ground was beyond him.

“I’m sorry for your friend.”

Then, an envelope was handed to him—“Why are there two envelopes?”

Steve stared down and realized that the other one was meant for the Carters.

"Who is it?" he asked, his voice small, glancing at the words but unable to read them. 

"Someone important to Lady Margaret, they said."


	5. PEGGY

“I’m sorry.” Steve said, “Senator Brandt said that he was important to you.”

When Steve handed the letter to her family, it was like she was transported back to that night when she first learned Michael was dead.

It was a moment of uncertainty, of a cold nothingness that wriggled its way from her spine to her flesh and left her without the ability to keep upright. The news, the letter of his death was nothing short of a swift hit to her stomach, leaving her out of breath.

“How did it happen?” asked her mother, incredibly ashen from the news as her father read the letter over and over again by the fireplace, his eyes scanning the lines and letters as if there was a chance they all had misread the letter and that he wasn’t dead.

“The 107th had been pinned down in Azzano, enemies had formed a blockade just outside their encampment. Half are dead, others are taken as prisoners, what little remains of them are in a military hospital.” Then, he cleared his throat, eyes looking equally as glassy as theirs, “I, uh, I knew someone there, too.”

“Is it perhaps someone we knew?”

Steve smiled, for a while, a ghost of a laugh that died before it even reached his lips. “No, ah, Bucky and I grew up together in Brooklyn.” He answered, his lips twisting into a pursed line, struggling to keep from tugging down.

“I see,” her father called out, absentmindedly, folding the letter back into the envelope and pocketing it. “We’ll have to see about talking to the officers posted near Azzano. It will be the least we can do for the Robert.”

Both of her parents chose to retire to their room while she stayed behind with Steve, sitting in front of the fire, watching in silence.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

She laughed mirthlessly. “War’s made widow and orphan.” Steve gave her a confused look.

“Who?”

Peggy scooted closer, “A close family friend, George’s mother, Lady Mary Crawley.”

Steve peered over to a frame that Peggy held in her hands. The photograph was taken just after Michael had finished Eton. A party had been held in his honor. George would have gone to Sandhurst for after the summer. It would have been the last time they were all together.

“If it’s okay, how’d you know George?”

The question hung on her.

George had been one of the acceptable playmates she had growing up. He was the son of the late Matthew Crawley, an officer in the war who had died on the day of his son’s birth, and a dear family friend who had been a strong ally of their family, Lady Mary Crawley.

“You know,” Steve began, “you don’t have to tell me anything if you’re okay with it, I understand.”

“No, it’s just. . .I never thought I’d be the one left behind like this.”

Steve blew a low whistle, the warm light of the fire glowing in his face. “Trust me,” he said, the darkness of grief still hanging on his face. “I know what that feels like.”

“How come?”

“You see, Bucky and I, well,” Steve craned his neck in her direction, swirling over a glass of whiskey in his hands, looking like a thousand miles away, “Remember how I said that I wasn’t really big before?”

“Yes, you said you had a rather late growth spurt.”

Steve reddened, though he clammed up and scooted back. “I guess you could say that.” He cleared his throat with a cough. “Well, I wasn’t the healthiest kid either, and I grew up in Brooklyn, a concrete mess—I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s _my_ concrete mess of a city, I love Brooklyn—but all the dust and smoke and grime didn’t really help a lot.”

He smiled and she wondered what that memory that could bring a smile on his face. “So, I was this skinny little runt, you know?”

“Not so very skinny now, are we?”

“Not now, no. But back then, a strong wind could toss me all the way back to Jersey! I was always sick, so sick that Ma and Bucky had to call in the priest for last rites at least three times over the winter of ’36.”

Peggy, who nursed her own drink, choked on the amber liquid and nearly coughed it back up. “That must have been dreadful.”

“Father Bartholomew sure thought that way.”

She leaned in closer, trying to think a version of him, a version of him that was so unlike the man she saw before her. “But you survived.”

“That’s the thing. I didn’t think I would.” He stared at the fire and Peggy wondered, with his shoulders so tense, what it was that he carried on his conscience, what it was that weighed on him so heavily that he look so broken. “I couldn’t count on all my fingers and toes how many times I almost died. I probably thought, on what was supposed to be my deathbed, on what kind of world would I leave behind for my Ma and Bucky You know that I took little jobs here and there, making a shiny nickel with every grocery cart I’d haul over hoping that maybe I’d save up enough for Ma and Buck—”

Then, his voice broke and his took in a shuddering breath. “My whole life, I’d been preparing myself for when I’d leave them alone. I just never knew that I’d be the one left behind and now I don’t. . .I can’t.”

It was then, as he spoke about his family from before everything came crashing down on him, thrust into a new world, was when she was given strength.

“I grew up with George here in Yorkshire.” She began, small and simple at first. “He was the heir to Downton Abbey and the earldom of Grantham, his father had been the heir, you see, but he died because of a motor crash, on the day of his birth, no less.”

Steve sucked in a breath and nodded understandingly. It dawned on Peggy, the fact that she had asked her father once about Steve. He, like George, never knew his father.

“George was the one person I knew I could trust. He, like Michael, understood me. Did you know, before Michael’s death, I was a codebreaker at Bletchley—and a damn good one, if I may say so myself—and I was supposed to go on a mission. George was the one there, you know?”

Steve raised his glass in the air. “To the ones who stayed by our sides.”

Peggy allowed her glass to clink against his, staring at the framed photograph still in her hands.

Steve finished his drink with ease, not a single hiss or a sign of the alcohol burning down through his throat. “I don’t know. . .I just wish that I could have done more for Bucky.”

“I wish I could have done more for George, as well. Even if it’s only to make sure his mother will be alright, especially with all the business of having to arrange for his body, find the new heir—”

Peggy stopped mid-breath. All that business of self-pity, it wasn’t unlike they hadn’t a choice at all! “What if I told you, Steve, that we can do more?”

Intrigued, he turned his attention to her, “How?” and in his eyes, she knew. If it meant helping their fallen friends for one last time, Peggy knew that Steve would move heaven and earth to make it happen.

“Well, have you ever heard of Howard Stark?”


	6. STEVE

The airplane shook and rattled as they wrestled the turbulent winds of the sky.

Steve fumbled with his fingers, clawing out the little dirt and grease that settled under his nail when Peggy scooted closer to him, just leaving the co-pilot’s spot near Howard.

Sound of air rushed to his ear and Steve realized his enhanced hearing could be a burden as the loud clank of machinery and wind battled just in the closed metal room of the plane.

“How are you holding up, Captain?” she asked, shouting over the noise.

He shrugged before glancing over to Howard’s seat. “How’d you two know each other?”

Steve realized he would probably yell himself hoarse before the mission was over, but thankfully, Peggy heard. “My father was looking to make the estate self-sufficient and had commissioned several farming and livestock machinery from Howard.”

Then, there was a snicker from up front.

“Talking about me, old pal?”

Peggy rolled her eyes in warm fondness. Howard Stark, to her, appeared to be a trusted and tested ally. “Only bad things, I assure you!” she hollered back, causing their pilot to crack out laughing.

“Steve, you never told me the great Peggy Carter was your cousin!” Howard exclaimed, decidedly a tone lighter. “Now I know Amanda and Harry would want you two cousins to be on the best of terms, but traipsing down to enemy lines surely wasn’t on their minds.”

Peggy, naturally, ignored the remark. “Unfortunately for us,” she yelled out loud, making very sure for Howard to hear, “Howard Stark is the best civilian pilot who’s coincidentally mad enough to brave this airspace. We’re lucky to have him.” She grumbled the last part.

The corner of his mouth tugged upwards. “You don’t sound very convinced that we’re lucky.”

Peggy had opened her mouth, a well-timed, smart quip probably in mind when Howard spoke up. “Now, what would our dear friends Colonel Phillips and Senator Brandt think of your little country-side trip?” Steve clobbered up, feigning disapproval as he silently fought off a smile.

“Maybe not so lucky with Howard.”

“I heard that!” Howard called out fondly before settling his attention back at the sky. “Oh yeah! Steve, Peg, might want to take a look back at the tail section, you’ll find some toys you might like.”

Reaching out his hand towards the railing, he and Peggy walked towards the back-end of the plane and his cheeks flared up. “What is this?”

“Army restricted my access to other raw materials, I had to improvise. Thankfully, your girls back from the USO show gave old me a favor and had it shipped!”

Peggy raised a brow at him, her lips quirking upwards in a teasing smile. “Your girls, Captain?” then, it dawned on him, that he had never really told Peggy about his time as Captain America.

Because in front of him was a heavily modified and geared up version of his USO uniform. When that showgirl was shot down right in front of him, bleeding out, that was the last time he had seen that uniform.

“Quite patriotic, I see.” And then, there it was, a promotional poster of his tour from Hoboken to Spokane. “No wonder the village girls kept gushing on and on about your chin, like a Spencer Tracy of sorts. As it turns out you’ve quite a recognizable chin.”

His ears probably burned a bright pink and it sure felt like it. “Howard!”

“Peggy’s a clever girl, Steve. She was bound to find out you’ve been playing horse and pony for Brandt!”

But Peggy smiled even wider. “You know, before the show was cancelled, you were supposed to tour here. My father was sent a pamphlet on it, and—oh, how does it go?— _Series E Defense Bonds. Each one you buy is a bullet in the barrel of your best guy’s gun_.” She spoke in a southern American accent that made him do a double take.

“Peggy,” Howard swallowed, heavy and gravelly, breaking the silence, “I will be haunted for the rest of my life. Please never speak like that again.”

Then, just in the corner of his eye, he saw a second uniform. Peggy surged forward, feeling the fabric. “Howard, we won’t have time to change!” she yelled over.

“It’s a tactical jump suit, just zip it over your clothes and you’ll be fine!” their pilot yelled out. “Besides, it’s reinforced micro carbon tri-polymer. This should withstand your standard issue German bayonet.”

Grabbing the familiar star-spangled drab into his hands and putting it on, clasping at the leather straps and closing it up, it felt different. The way Steve felt, standing in that new uniform, ready to jump into enemy airspace to save hundreds of men and bring back Bucky and George home to their loved ones, it didn’t feel like the last time he had worn the uniform.

Shield in hand, strapped to his arm, when he was a stage performer, he felt like an impostor—a solider in all but action. Staying safe while others died in his stead, being promoted when he’s done nothing to deserve it.

But as he stood now, on a mission, everything changed. Helping Peggy bring back her friend, bringing back Bucky to Ma Winnie and Pa George, it felt like he was finally doing something right.

What he was meant to do.

He was finally going to stand up against those bullies.

He could finally prove to Bucky, even if it meant just bringing him home in a coffin, that he could stand up and protect the people he loved.

He could help those who couldn’t protect themselves.

“Standard bayonet, huh?”

Peggy gave him an unimpressed look, but with the flash of light, it revealed it was different. T was a look of worry, a momentary lapse of nerves. “It’s Hydra we’re talking about. Deep science division of advance warfare technology. They won’t come after us using a pocket knife.”

“Yeah, well, just show them that mean right hook you used on Hodge and I’m sure we’ll be back home before we know it.”

Peggy grimaced. “Yes. Home where you’ll most likely be court-martialed for going on a backdoor mission and practically deliver yourself to Hydra and I will have the dressing down of the decade from my parents.” He couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him.

“Well, if anybody yells at us, we can just shoot back.”

A moment of silence reigned over them, just the sound of the engine running over the rush of wind. “Why did you allow me to come, Steve?”

For a moment, he couldn’t answer. “Why shouldn’t I let you come?”

Peggy eyes the door blankly. “My old fiancé, Fred, would have. Told me it’s the women’s job to keep the home fires tended to, keep the house, and watch the children.”

Then, he gave a trying smile. “You know, if we let the women fight in the war, we’d win the war just about yesterday.”

But she pressed on him. “I’m serious. Why?”

“I’ve seen you handle yourself with Hodge. Back then, well, I wouldn’t even last that long with the bullies running me out.”

“Do you have something against running away?”

“You start running, you’ll never stop. Stand up, push back, can’t say no forever, right?”

Peggy mulled over his words her knuckles gripping over the mirrored straps of her own uniform. “I guess I do know what it’s like to have every door shut in your face.”

“Besides,” he began, “you knew what we’re about to do is against every rule in every damn book. You knew that when you suggested I go over and find Bucky and your friend. You had every right to turn me over to the nearest officer and have my ass hauled over to Colonel Phillips, but you didn’t.”

“Well, to be fair, I was the one who suggested you do a backdoor mission.”

“Yeah, but you understood what it means, getting to help one last time, you understood more than anyone ever could.”

In that moment, in the middle of enemy airspace, they smiled at each other and felt something more valuable than a friendship. It was an understanding, an allyship.

But of course, in that moment, hands locked with one another in a silent but understood wordless agreement that they would stand by one another in all of time, was interrupted by Howard Stark.

“That Hydra camp in Krausberg is just tucked between the mountains, a factory of sorts, nothing better than my own, of course. I’ll be able to drop you off on the doorstep in just a few minutes.”

Steve unknowingly nodded, his feet locked in on the ground, hand gripping just the edge of his shield. “Thank you for everything you’ve done, Howard!” he called out, meaning every word.

“Anything for America’s golden boy!” the man crowed with laughter, and before he sobered up, Howard looked back, giving them a starry-eyed look, “Hey, Peggy old pal, if the both of you ain’t in so much of a hurry, I thought we could drop by in Lucerne for some late night fondue.”

“So,” he started lamely and awkwardly, “are you two. . .do you, er, _fondue_?” he could just about feel the ghost of Bucky smacking him in over the head, yelling on the top of his lungs, how he’d managed to find the smartest, most gorgeous dame in all the world and he managed to mess it up.

Peggy gave an exaggerated eye roll, to who it was meant for, he wasn’t exactly sure. But mercifully, thankfully, she breezed past by it like he never said it at all. “Anyways,” she took something from her side and gave him a large radio. “If ever we get separated, this is a transponder. Activate it and Howard will be able to zero in on your location,” she brandished her own device, “same with mine, of course.”

He was just about to wonder, ask out loud if they’re sure the transponder works when the whole plane rattled, the metal walls reverberated with the shock of absorption from the hit from artillery shell. A flash of light was shone on them.

They were spotted.

“Steve, we have to go now.”

He tugged on his shield, strapping on the lather claps tighter as if his life depended on it.

_Bucky, I’m bringing you home._

Howard struggled with the controls. “No, I’m taking the both of you all the way in,” he pulled right back up, just barely making it to the cover of the clouds when another round of shells hit them.

“As soon as we’re free, turn this thing around and get the hell out of here!”

“Hang on, Steve, you can’t give me orders!” called out Howard, in his voice was the tension and the strain and he could just about hear the sheer determination the inventor had in every fibre of his body to get them to their real drop off site.

“The hell I can’t,” at that, Peggy cracked a smile, jumping off the plane. “I’m a captain!”


End file.
